by Teagan Kade
“Whatever you say, big boy.” She spins me around, pushing me forward. “Walk.”
The last thing I remember is her trying to pull my pants off, lifting my legs into bed. I’m sure she kisses me on the forehead, like a mother would, before whispering in my ear things that would make even a hooker blush.
I may be drunk, but I’m still headboard hard when my eyelids close over.
CHAPTER TWELVE: GERMANY
Sara
Germany—Home turf for Team Goodall and all the company players are here to keep an eye on their investment. I visited Berlin on my whirlwind European tour a few years ago. There was something about the order of the place I found appealing, the efficiency of it all so seemingly lacking back home.
“Say it again?” I laugh.
“Hockenheium and the Hockenheimring,” says Andy, accentuating all the wrong syllables. I’m sitting on the side of his bed not even bothering to avert my eyes from his sculpted chest and hard biceps. Bathed in morning light, he’d give Adonis a run for his money any day.
I point to the tat on his arm, two pistons rising through fire. “Why the tat?”
“Power.”
“An electrical outlet would have worked.”
“Ah, but it wouldn’t look hella cool, now would it?”
Suppose not.
He runs his finger up my arm, the hairs on it backlit golden in the sun and rising to his touch. Given the tent forming under the bedsheets, they’re not the only thing rising.
It’s time, Sara.
I’m about to lie down beside him when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.
I place the phone to my ear. “Sara speaking.”
“Sara.”
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry to call you like this, baby.” As soon as those words are out I know it can’t be good news. “It’s your grandmother.”
The color leaves my face. Andy sees it, sitting up.
“Mom?”
I can hear the composure break on Mom’s end, her voice cracking. “She passed away, hon, last night.”
I can’t believe it. Nan was eighty-eight, yes, but she was the picture of health. “How?”
“In her sleep, peacefully, but I don’t know what to do, Sara. I just don’t know.”
I look to Andy. “I’m coming home. I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Honey, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, Mom. I do.”
I hang up, staring at the phone screen like it’s going to shoot out life’s mysteries to me.
Andy’s face is full of concern. “I’m sorry.”
I wipe away a tear, try and pull myself to order. Mom worked a lot of late shifts growing up. It would always be Nan looking after Gretch and me, feeding us. God how I’ve missed a decent home-cooked meal. And now she’s gone, like that. A light switched off never to shine again.
Andy reaches to the phone by the bedside. “I’ll make arrangements.”
*
Our Lady of Saints in Millertown isn’t the most upscale hospital, not that I enjoy spending time at any kind of medical establishment. They’re taking forever to release the paperwork and Mom’s a wreck beside me. I’m barely holding it together myself, but I’ve got to be strong, for her.
The TV in the waiting room is tiny, precariously hanging from the roof. It’s playing a re-run of the race in Germany. In pole position, the race works for Andy from the get-go. Carl’s on him, but there’s little chance for a passing maneuver given the tight way Andy is driving. For a second it looks like Carl might have him coming out of the hairpin, but Andy shunts right and shuts him out. He’s in form, easily taking the win.
I step out into the hall and dial his number. I need to take my mind off things.
“Did you see the race?” It’s nice to hear his voice.
There’s hustle and bustle in the background, people firing questions at him. “I did. Well done. This puts you in the championship lead, right?”
“It does.”
“You sound happy.”
“I am, and I know you’re over there dealing with some tough stuff, but everything’s under control here. I want you to know that. I called Caliber and they’ve arranged all the formal wear for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“The after-party.”
I shake my head. “Right. I’m still a little jet-lagged, sorry.”
“Get some rest, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“How’s your mom holding up?”
I look to the doorway, can hear Mom sobbing in the waiting room. “She’s been better.”
“Give her my condolences.”
“I will.”
“Talk later?”
“Of course.”
I look at the phone wishing I could somehow make him materialize beside me, to lose myself in him, to feel his arms wrapping around me strong and protective.
I take my seat back in the waiting room. “Work, sorry.”
Mom looks at me with red eyes. “Are you enjoying it?” she asks. “I never thought my baby would be jet-setting around the world living such a glamorous life.”
“It’s not all glamorous, Mom.”
She looks at me a little harder and I crack, the first smile in days lighting my face. “Okay, it’s pretty glamorous.”
She sniffs, cheering up on the change of subject if only momentarily. “And the men? Anything catch your eye?”
“Mom,” I scold.
She waves her hand around. “This… thing with your grandmother has put it all in perspective, Sara. Is it wrong for a mother to want her daughter to be happy, to settle down and pop out some grandkids?”
“You make birth sound like baking cookies.”
She laughs and it’s so good to see her smiling. “I’ve only done it twice, and trust me, there were no cookies. But really, there must be someone, no?
I keep smiling. Damn it, I can’t help it. “Maybe one guy.”
She taps the side of her head. “I see. Keeping it quiet from your prying mother. Well, just let me know when Mr. Mystery is ready to meet me. I need a good excuse to pull out the silverware.”
“We’re a long way away from marriage, an SUV and a couple of kids, Mom.”
“I’m just happy you’ve met someone.”
I stare at the wall, thinking. Andy Fortes—marriage material? The idea would have seemed so ludicrous at the start of the season, but more and more I see the man behind the mask, the caring and compassionate man. That arrogant asshole the world sees? He’s still there, but Andy Fortes is more than a big cock—as alluring as that has become. He’s complex, layers and layers to be explored, to be loved.
So why is it I’m reluctant to sleep with him? I mean, not that sex should dictate a relationship, but I want to. Am I really so concerned he’ll forget me the moment he comes? He doesn’t think of me like that, as another notch, an achievement. I know he doesn’t.
Sara Fortes. It does have a nice ring to it.
*
The funeral is small and low-key. It rains lightly, the weather joining our sullen mood. The wake’s not much better, egg sandwiches with wilted lettuce summing up the general atmosphere.
Gretchen couldn’t make it. I didn’t expect her to come. I said I’d pay for her airfare, but she never had the same attachment to Nan as I did.
“My god, Sara.”
I turn, glass of iced tea in hand. “Mrs. Dobson, how are you?”
It’s probably been a decade since I’ve seen Mrs. Dobson, Nan’s next-door neighbor. Her hair’s whiter, but her chubby complexion and rosy cheeks remain.
She looks me up and down. “My god what a fine young woman you have become.”
“Thank you. You’re looking well yourself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hip’s busted, arthritis everywhere, but I manage. Don’t get old, Sara. It’s no fun. Say, I heard you were flying around the world, a big fashion star.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I o
nly work for a fashion label. I’m not the talent.”
“With legs like yours, you could be. You Young girls and your good looks. You certainly didn’t get them from your daddy.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She ignores this. “And you enjoy it, the traveling?”
“I do.”
“A man?”
What is it with the man question? “I’m taking it slow, Mrs. Dobson.”
She leans in. “Yes, I remember the business you had with that Millertown boy.”
I’ve tried very hard to forget it, to leave this town behind me. “The whole town knew, Mrs. Dobson.”
She shakes her head. “Took your innocence and tossed you away like rubbish the very next day, the scoundrel. He’s in prison, you know, upstate. Half of those Millertown boys are.”
“Oh?” I reply, not caring one way or the other. That ‘boy’ is the reason I fled Rosie so fast. I can barely remember his face, but I sure as hell remember how it felt to find him hooking up with Gemma what’s-her-name the next day. I didn’t ever want to feel that way again, every relationship that followed ending in equal disaster. I’m no doormat, though. I left him with a nice little shiner. I’m sure he told all his friends he fell down a flight of stairs.
Mrs. Dobson leans close. “If there’s one thing I have learnt from all this business, Sara, it’s that life is far too short for ‘taking it slow’. I had many chances to find a man growing up, but I fussed around thinking and dawdling while the loves of my life were snapped up one by one. Don’t let it happen to you. Dive in. Live your life.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Dobson.”
She moves onto the next geriatric leaving me looking out the window considering her words. They’re cliché, straight from a Hallmark card, but there’s a certain truth in them. Why am I taking things slow? She’s right. Anything can happen, and often does.
It’s time, I tell myself again, but now I’m determined. It’s time to give yourself to Andy Fortes.
*
It’s strange being back in my childhood room. Why was I so obsessed with pink?
I lie back on a pillow with way too much lace going on, looking up at a ceiling filled with boy bands and movie stars, most of whom you couldn’t pay me to sleep with these days. Again, what was I thinking?
You weren’t. Your hormones were.
I run my finger over Andy’s contact on my phone. They still are.
I debate whether or not to call him. It’ll be late in Hockenheim, after midnight.
Fuck it.
I dial, breath short as the ringtone goes on and on and on.
A sleepy voice answers. “Sara? Everything okay?” His words are a little slurry.
“Have you been drinking?” I ask.
“I’ve had a couple of lemonades, sure.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s a little lost without me. “Big night, huh?”
“Just celebrating the win. Not the same without you, though.”
He might be drunk, but he’s happy. “You can’t have fun by yourself?”
“I’d have more fun with you.”
I ignore the drunken innuendo. “Maybe you should get some rest. You’re off to Belgium tomorrow, remember?”
“I could walk to Belgium,” he chides.
“Not with ‘a couple of lemonades’ under your belt.”
“At least I got Stacey back.”
I stiffen at her name. “Stacey?”
He’s laughing to himself. “I bumped into her at the party, as you do. Can’t seem to shake that woman.”
I start tapping the side of the phone, nervous. “You talked to her?”
He giggles again. “You bet your ass I did. Told her to wait for me naked in the lobby bathroom, sent that photographer from the Daily in after her. Felt a little sorry for humiliating her like that—for about five seconds.”
He laughs again and I exhale with relief. “You have been busy.”
“That’ll teach her to fuck with Andy Forbes.”
“Fortes,” I correct. He really is drunk. It’s becoming a habit.
“You coming back?” he says with a lilt.
“Tomorrow. I’ll see you in Belgium.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“And Andy…”
I pause, thinking of how to phrase my feelings, to tell him I’m finally ready to give myself to him fully.
Until I hear snoring.
“Andy?”
The sound’s muffled. Stupid guy’s gone and passed out on me.
“I think I love you,” I tell the phone, promptly hanging up and collapsing onto the bed far too hot and bothered for this cold New Hampshire night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BELGIUM
Andy
Fucking Carl. I thought I had him on Turn Twelve, but he’s proving slippery, increasingly cunning with every round. Spa’s my favorite circuit, even over Monza. I should have nailed it but I came up short—not that it’s my fault.
Even the commentators thought my car was underpowered. Passing was an impossibility. “Perhaps they should swap cars,” they joked, but standing in second place was no laughing matter.
I stalk around the back of the pits following the race looking for a place to drive my fist into, but Steven’s missing and the mechanics evaporate when they see me, clearly sick of my tongue-lashings, however warranted they may be.
I do manage to find Sara. She looks better than ever, light and airy in white like the first time we met. Hands in my pockets, I approach her in the middle of the garage. “You’re back.”
“I am,” she smiles.
“How was it?” I realize what I’ve said. “Fuck, I don’t mean… You know.”
“It’s fine,” she smiles, coming closer. “Look, don’t worry about the race. Carl is only ahead by three points. You can easily catch him in Italy.”
“I will.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She looks down at her shoes before lifting her eyes back up to meet mine, blue on blue. “How about dinner tonight?”
What is this? A parallel world?
I look at her with an air of suspicion. “Did I say something last night? I know I spoke to you, but for the life of me I can’t remember what I said.”
“Only your little fun and games with Stacey.”
Shit. “Oh, yeah. Probably not the world’s best idea. I was going to delete the photos the Daily guy gave me anyhow.”
“Forget her,” Sara continues. “Dinner. What do you say?”
“I say yes.”
“You know a spot?”
I smile. “I do.”
*
Sara let me pick out my own suit tonight. Technically, I’m obliged to wear Caliber attire in public, but she wanted to see what my fashion sense is like. Given the look on her face, she’s not disappointed.
And Sara? I have a hard-on halfway to the moon a second after I take her in. The dress she wears is red, silky, strapless and short—real short. Every eye in the restaurant is on her. A young waiter even drops a glass of wine when he passes, his eyes snapping away from her ass. I give him the ol’ ‘I got this’.
“How many Michelin stars does this place have?” Sara queries, dabbing at the bird’s nest of quail eggs and angel hair in front of her.
“Does it matter? There are so many good restaurants here you could throw a dart at a map and still come up trumps. The Belgians know their food… and wine. Brussels is famous for it.”
Two glasses more and I’m speaking far too frankly for this hour. Sara soaks it all in, eyes gleaming and open. She listens, responds—a far cry from the cold snap she was fronting when we first met.
Main course out of the way, I pick up the menu. “Dessert?”
The change that comes over her catches me completely off guard. She leans forward, cleavage bulging and lips pouted. “I’m all yours.”
I look down between the table to find a foot in stockings jammed right against my dick, toes curled against my shaft. I fo
llow the natural trajectory across, and yes, it’s her alright.
“Sara?”
The tables are close, but not that close. Anyone could see this.
“Are you complaining?” she purrs.
“No, definitely not.”
She smiles, pure sex. “Drink.”
I take a sip of wine while her foot continues to press and prod against my package. I’ve never been so hard. Just the thought of the gauzy satin of her stocking against my trousers is sending me careening towards release.
I look up. Sara’s eyes are cat-like, flecked with gold from the streetlights outside and dripping with arousal. It’s only a split second, but it provides all I need to know.
She twists her ankle and really starts to work at me. God, it feels so fucking good.
I take another sip and half choke as the butt of her heel slides up and down my clothed cock. I’m rock hard, cock trapped in place by my underwear and pressed painfully against the side of my leg. I’m not used to this, being the, for want of a better word, victim.
She’s rubbing, every move so sensual and practiced. I look around the table and cannot believe no one else has noticed what’s going on here.
Suddenly I’m stiffening further, the familiar roar of an impending orgasm in my ears. My breathing has become ragged, these clothes far too tight.
Faster and faster her foot works rubbing and curling up against me. “I really missed you, Andy. Like, really missed you.”
I think I’m actually going to come in my pants right here at the table. I can feel the blood lifting in my cheeks, my throat suddenly dry.
Oh fuck.
I suddenly leap from the table, catching the edge of it with my knee and trying to spin off to avoid anyone seeing the giant erection I’m packing.
“Andy?” she queries, knowing full well what’s going on. “Everything okay?”
I take my seat again and hold my hand up, announcing with a crack in my voice “Check, please.”
*
The door to my hotel suite has barely closed before Sara’s standing against me, hands on my collar.
Time to take the power back.
I literally throw her onto the bed. She collapses into the middle mattress of the bed legs spread, her red thong a beacon underneath the net of her stockings. I climb onto the bed over her and fill my hand with a breast, her nipple pressing through the fabric into the hard palm of my hand.